They reached Elm Ridge as the sky bled into orange.

  Light filtered through the trees in long, clean lines, catching on pale bark and smooth stone. The forest here felt different—denser, but not wild. Controlled. Trimmed back with care rather than force.

  The house sat low and wide, its walls pale and unadorned, windows tall and evenly spaced. The air smelled faintly of crushed leaves and something sharper beneath it—herbs, alcohol, antiseptic.

  Garrett felt it immediately.

  The field hospital pretending to be a home.

  They were ushered inside with quiet efficiency. Students stepped aside without being told. Doors opened before anyone reached for them. A chair was moved from Hawthorne’s path before he realized it was there.

  Lockwood slowed.

  Her gaze sharpened.

  The supply room came first.

  It was enormous.

  Shelves ran floor to ceiling along the far wall—neatly stacked, perfectly aligned, obsessively categorized. Gauze. Wraps. Splints. Liniments. Bottles with labels written in identical handwriting.

  And bandages.

  An entire wall of them.

  Hawthorne stopped.

  “…Why,” he asked carefully, “do you have so many bandages?”

  An Elm answered without hesitation.

  “We’re prepared.”

  “For what?”

  The student didn’t reply immediately.

  Instead, they turned—slowly—and looked out the window, past the glass, toward the pine trees in the distance.

  “…Them.”

  Hawthorne followed the look.

  Then nodded once. “Ah.”

  They moved deeper into the infirmary wing.

  “Why does this room smell like herbs?” Hawthorne asked.

  “Aromatherapy,” an Elm replied smoothly.

  “And why,” Lockwood added, gesturing to the equipment mounted neatly along the wall, “does it have blood pressure cuffs?”

  There was the faintest pause.

  “…Aromatherapy.”

  Lockwood stared at the cuffs.

  Then wrote it down anyway.

  They reached a reading table near the back, stacked with thick medical texts. Lockwood picked one up at random and flipped it open.

  Her brow furrowed.

  She turned a page.

  Paused.

  “…Why does your medical textbook have handwritten notes criticizing another student?”

  The Elms beside her didn’t blink.

  “He deserves it.”

  “…Who?” Hawthorne asked.

  The students hesitated. Barely.

  Then answered with the visible effort of someone saying something deeply unpleasant.

  “…Francis.”

  Garrett closed his eyes.

  Of course.

  Lockwood looked up sharply.

  Lockwood tapped the margin. “These notes, are they professional critiques?”

  “They are accurate,” the student said stiffly. “He improvises. He ignores procedure. He is reckless.”

  “And yet,” another Elm added mildly, “he appears to be effective.”

  Their jaws tightened in unison.

  Silence settled, thick and uncomfortable.

  Garrett cleared his throat.

  “Healthy academic rivalry,” he said quickly. “Encourages excellence.”

  Lockwood studied them—posture, stillness, the way their hands rested. Not clasped. Not tense.

  Ready.

  She closed the book and placed it back exactly where it had been.

  “…Diligent,” she said.

  Hawthorne nodded. “Thorough.”

  Neither of them smiled.

  As they stepped back into the fading light, Garrett exhaled through his nose.

  Elm Ridge had passed.

  Not because it looked harmless—

  —but because it looked prepared.

  And that, somehow, felt worse.

  Willow Shade came as a relief.

  Or at least, it tried to.

  The path curved downward into lighter woods where the trees bent instead of towered, their branches hanging low and swaying gently in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through in shifting patterns, dappling the ground like moving water. Wind chimes—actual ones, mercifully harmless—hung from beams and eaves, chiming softly whenever the air stirred.

  The house itself felt open. Wide doors. Tall windows. Curtains that fluttered instead of blocking the light.

  Everything about Willow Shade suggested flexibility. Adaptability. Nothing dangerous here, the architecture seemed to insist.

  Garrett did not trust it for a second.

  Inside, students lounged in clusters, talking, laughing, sprawled across furniture with the ease of people who believed they were behaving normally. Someone balanced a chair on two legs. Someone else sharpened a pencil with unsettling focus.

  Lockwood took one step inside and paused.

  Her eyes moved once.

  Twice.

  Then she slid one drawer open.

  The sound was small. Innocent.

  Metal glinted.

  She leaned closer.

  Inside lay several sleek, unmistakably sharp daggers, nestled together like they belonged there.

  “…Those are,” a Willow student began carefully, “extended scalpels.”

  Garrett closed his eyes. This is it.

  “For what?” Hawthorne asked.

  The student swallowed.

  “Large… frogs?”

  Another Willow slammed a hand over the speaker’s mouth.

  Garrett felt his soul detach slightly from his body and hover near the ceiling.

  Lockwood straightened slowly. “Why are there metal pieces shaped like weapons throughout this room?”

  If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  A different student stepped forward with confidence born entirely of bad decisions.

  “Those are spoons.”

  Lockwood lifted one.

  It was long. Narrow. Balanced perfectly for throwing.

  “This,” she said, “is a spear.”

  The student nodded once. “…A long spoon.”

  Hawthorne made a noise that might have been a cough.

  Garrett rubbed his face.

  They moved on.

  Quickly.

  The workshop smelled of oil and wood shavings. Half-finished projects littered the tables—wind vanes, pulleys, carved handles awaiting attachments that definitely did not exist.

  Sergio stood near the back, sleeves rolled up, smiling entirely too much.

  Lockwood pointed to a rack of polished metal components.

  “And these?”

  “Craft supplies,” Sergio said easily.

  “For what craft?” Hawthorne asked.

  Sergio beamed. “I have no idea.”

  Garrett made a strangled sound.

  Lockwood took careful notes.

  By the time they exited Willow Shade, Lockwood’s notebook had grown thicker, Hawthorne looked faintly ill, and Garrett suspected he would never fully recover from this day.

  At least no one had said combat.

  At least no one had said stabbing.

  At least—

  Lockwood paused at the threshold and glanced back once more.

  “…Creative,” she said.

  Hawthorne nodded. “Innovative.”

  Garrett smiled.

  It was thin, but it did reach his eyes.

  There was only one house left.

  And it was the most dangerous one of all.

  Pine Hollow lay beyond the pinewood itself—needles soft underfoot, the air sharp and clean with resin and cold sunlight. The forest closed in protectively, sound dampened in a way that felt intentional.

  The house, when it appeared, looked… lived in.

  Not imposing. Not pristine.

  Comfortable. Chaotic. Warm in the way places became when people stopped trying to impress anyone.

  Garrett got a headache just looking at it.

  They were met at the entrance by Ermin, who had somehow reappeared ahead of them under the pretense of “sorting things out,” and by the most reliable student Pine Hollow could offer.

  Abel Whitmore.

  He smiled pleasantly and handed each of them a cup of jasmine tea.

  “Welcome,” Abel said. “Please. For the nerves.”

  The inspectors accepted it without question and took polite sips.

  Garrett did not.

  Abel’s expression—perfectly calm, just a little too knowing—made Garrett decide against drinking his.

  They were led into the common room.

  The common room was cozy. Mismatched furniture. Books piled wherever they pleased.

  Hawthorne sat on a couch that had survived several generations of abuse.

  It collapsed.

  There was a beat of silence.

  “Sorry,” Blake said immediately. “I slam into it when I’m excited.”

  Hawthorne struggled to get up. “…Why?”

  “Victory jumps,” Blake explained. “After winning Monopoly.”

  Garrett mouthed you’ll pay for this.

  They moved on—quickly.

  In the workshop, a jar labeled SAMPLE J glowed faintly.

  Lockwood stopped.

  “Is this dangerous?” she asked.

  “Only if ingested,” Francis replied calmly, taking the jar away.

  Lockwood’s eyes narrowed. “Has anyone ingested it?”

  “No,” Francis and Ermin said together.

  In the hallway, Bluebell froze.

  She looked guilty.

  The inspectors asked to see a girl’s room.

  Eve lay asleep on the bed, utterly unmoving.

  “Is she sick?” Lockwood asked, voice lowered, face worried.

  “No,” Eve said sleepily, without opening her eyes.

  “Yes,” Ermin snapped.

  Eve opened one eye, smiled faintly at Garrett—and fell back asleep.

  Garrett’s expression softened despite himself.

  Then they demanded to see a boy’s room, heading in the clinic’s direction.

  Ermin tried—valiantly—to steer them toward another wing.

  They went to 3F anyway.

  The moment the door opened, the inspectors were assaulted by sensation.

  The sharp, layered scent of herbs.

  The clutter of notes piled high on every surface.

  Cushions. Too many cushions.

  Glass bottles rattling softly on shelves.

  And Trey, lying on his bed, humming his theme song.

  “…Is this a bedroom,” Hawthorne asked slowly, “or an infirmary?”

  “Yes,” Ermin said tightly.

  Lockwood’s gaze snapped to Trey. “Is all this yours?”

  “No, ma’am.” Trey sat up and gestured with precision, outlining a square around his side of the room. “All this is mine.”

  Then he pointed across the chaos.

  “And all that is Francis’s.”

  “Francis?” Lockwood repeated.

  The name carried weight.

  “That would be me, ma’am.”

  Francis said softly as he squeezed his way through the cluster of bodies, clothes faintly stained with herbs, posture apologetic by default.

  Lockwood took one look at him and visibly recalibrated her expectations.

  This is the person Elm Ridge despises?

  He looked like a strong breeze could knock him over.

  She turned away, hand reaching for Francis’s massive notebook.

  Garrett and Ermin nearly had a stroke.

  She flipped it open.

  Paused.

  Squinted.

  Then flipped another page.

  “…Is this,” Lockwood asked carefully, “art?”

  “Yes,” Francis replied instantly.

  She handed it back. “Your calligraphy needs work. I don’t understand any of it.”

  Francis beamed.

  Lockwood gestured at the bed. “And why does this bed have so many cushions?”

  “I have night terrors,” Francis said simply.

  “Hm,” Hawthorne said. “Makes sense.”

  Then he opened a drawer.

  There was a pair of metal cuffs.

  Heavy.

  Unmistakable.

  “Sir—”

  Ermin went pale.

  “That’s…” Francis began, reaching to take them back, “…personal preference.”

  The silence was deafening.

  Every head turned—slowly, unanimously—to Trey.

  Trey blinked.

  Then slowly opened his mouth—

  Ermin made a sound halfway between a cough and a threat.

  “…Moving on,” Hawthorne said briskly.

  “Yes,” Lockwood agreed, already retreating. “Moving on.”

  They exited the room with impressive speed.

  Francis passed Abel at the doorframe.

  Abel opened his mouth.

  “DO NOT,” Francis hissed.

  Abel’s eyes gleamed with amusement.

  Garrett followed the inspectors, rubbing his face.

  “Pour them more of that tea,” he ordered quietly.

  Back in Garrett’s office, the inspectors sat a little crooked.

  Not sloppy—just… off. Hawthorne leaned too far back in his chair, blinking more than necessary. Lockwood’s pen drifted in small, lazy circles above her notebook, like it had forgotten its purpose.

  The tea was working.

  “The school—hic—passes,” Hawthorne said, voice wavering just enough to notice. He cleared his throat with dignity that did not entirely return. “With… minor recommendations.”

  Garrett folded his hands neatly on the desk. “Of course.”

  Lockwood squinted at her notes, then nodded as if they were perfectly clear.

  “First,” she said, “we recommend separating adolescents and younger children more consistently. Mixed instruction can… bruise pride. Older students need space to fail without an audience.”

  Hawthorne nodded along, a beat too late. “Yes. Pride’s important. Fragile thing.”

  “We also advise paving the paths to the dormitories,” Lockwood continued. “The woods are… atmospheric. But potentially dangerous. Especially at night.”

  Garrett inclined his head. “Noted.”

  “And,” Hawthorne added, lifting a finger that wobbled slightly, “minor structural improvements. Railings. Lighting. Better signage. One… one spelling correction.”

  Garrett did not react.

  They exchanged a glance.

  “At first,” Lockwood said slowly, “we found the curriculum… inconsistent. Unusual overlaps. Gaps that raised questions.”

  Hawthorne frowned at the ceiling, as if recalling something distant. “Didn’t like it. Not on paper.”

  “But,” Lockwood continued, her voice softening, “after visiting the dormitories… after meeting the students where they live…”

  She paused.

  “They’re happy,” she said.

  The word settled oddly in the room.

  “Engaged,” Hawthorne added. “Lively. Supported.”

  Lockwood nodded. “We don’t see that often.”

  Her gaze met Garrett’s—clearer now, briefly sober.

  “This school prioritizes the well-being of its students and staff,” she said. “And that matters. More than tidy ledgers.”

  Hawthorne pushed himself to his feet, swaying just a little. “So yes. You pass. We’re… off to the next town.”

  They gathered their things with careful deliberation, bumped into the doorframe once, corrected themselves, and walked out with as much dignity as the situation allowed.

  The door closed.

  Silence returned.

  A moment later, Ermin slipped inside, cautious.

  “Well?” he asked.

  Garrett exhaled and leaned back in his chair.

  “We passed,” he said.

  Ermin blinked. Then smiled. “See? Not so bad.”

  Garrett nodded. “Visionary. Kind inspectors.”

  Ermin’s smile faltered.

  “Then why do you look like that?”

  Garrett stared at the ceiling.

  “Because,” he said quietly, “as much as I like them, the procedure has to be done.”

  Ermin frowned. “Procedure?”

  “I have to report to Elderwatch.”

  Ermin scoffed. “So? We handled it. Just let it slide. For once.”

  Garrett shook his head.

  “It doesn’t work that way, Ermin,” he said. “This isn’t something you can overlook. When a normie sets foot in this place, it’s obligated to be reported.”

  Ermin’s voice dropped. “And Elderwatch will…?”

  Garrett didn’t answer immediately.

  He kept looking up, as if the ceiling might spare him from saying it out loud.

  “…Eliminate them.”

  The word was quiet.

  It stayed anyway.

  Ermin stared. “You— you’ll actually report it?”

  Garrett finally looked at him.

  There was something in his eyes— an apology he couldn’t say out loud.

  “Do I have a choice?”